


Curseword

by violetpeche



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Character Death, Cheating, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Everybody Dies, Infidelity, Italy, M/M, Original Character(s), Poetry, Recreational Drug Use, Star-crossed, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy, unspecified time period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19145800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche
Summary: When master chef Kim Doyoung marries a wealthy investment banker, he suddenly has everything he's wanted: a loving husband, financial security, and a bustling, Michelin star restaurant in the heart of Tuscany.But then there is Johnny.Johnny brings him comfort, laughter, and smiles. He makes Doyoung feel warmth in his heart, his belly full.





	Curseword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinkwinwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwinwin/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you do not wish to read a terrible, sad, horrific love story, it's best you close this window now.
> 
> This particular story has been living in my brain for a very, very long time - about ten years at this point. I have fleshed out an outline for this plot numerous times. It's seen many variations with vastly different settings, time periods, style formats, and characters. I've decided to indulge myself by getting it out of my brain as a fic, and Johnny and Doyoung have felt to be the most fitting characters for it.
> 
> While this story _is_ about love, passion, and devotion, ultimately, this story is sad. It is tragic. It will not have a happy ending. **Please be sure to read the tags** before continuing.
> 
> If you do decide to read this, thank you.
> 
> Please excuse any spelling errors. This was lovingly beta'd by the wonderful Shauna.
> 
> General disclaimer: please do not re-upload or re-distribute any of this text onto another platform without permission. Please just link to this page. Also, this is purely a work of fiction.

_Within the first breath_  
_Of meeting you_  
_I ran through rivers of ink_  
_About the warmth_  
_Of your palms, having only_  
_Known what they are like through_  
_The cotton on my back._  
_Yet now you have spoiled_  
_Me with them, curling_  
_Over the face of time, searing_  
_The spot behind my ear, thumbs strumming_  
_A song against my ribs._  
_Lest I forget your tongue_  
_Licking at the seams of my heart—_

______________________________________

There isn’t much of a difference between drowning and burning.

Doyoung can’t tell which is which in the heat of the moment. He’s running harder than ever through the downpour around the corner and into the piazza, paying no mind to the slick cobblestones under his feet. He’s soaked, hair plastered against his forehead, rivers of water streaming into his eyes. The wool of his coat has gone musty, clinging onto his shoulders like a vise. What makes this full, burning sensation that fills out his lungs so frustrating is knowing that the world passing around him can’t feel it, too. 

However, the passersby sense his urgency as he pushes his way through a crowd of tourists shuffling their way into a nearby church. He’s lithe, ducking between shoulders and across the pavement, air seeping in through his nose like a forest fire.

Doyoung putters down from a jog to longer strides, leather messenger bag slung across his body, books thumping against his hip, when he breaks free into a quiet spot in his path. It's only for a few steps, then he's squeezing through the automatic doors of the _pronto soccorso_ before they can make way for him. He wipes away one final gust of wind that licks at the back of his neck. 

He doesn't bother wiping his feet off onto the carpet in the entryway, isn't sorry to be a walking hazard, but rather he bulldozes his way inside, blazing a trail of icy rain off the heels of his leather loafers and onto the floor. Doyoung can feel a few blisters boiling at the balls of his feet. They’re tender with each squick the leather soles make with every step. 

He turns the corner under the soft hum of a balmy, fluorescent glow, gives himself half a second to wince at a sharp pain that springs up from the ball of his left foot. He hisses at the sting, shakes his leg out and puts one foot back in front of the other. In half the time it takes him to recover, he blinks past the thought, his quest for relief in peeling away these new wool socks Jungwoo bought him.

 _Jungwoo_.

He can hear Jungwoo’s voice, a soft cadence of broken Italian, drifting through the pungent smell of latex and sterile walls.

Doyoung stops in front of the doorpost of the waiting room and drops his messenger bag onto his foot. It’s crammed with bodies: two colicky babies wailing in tandem, a man cradling a hand wrapped in a cotton t-shirt, an elderly woman trying to hack up a lung.

Then there’s Jungwoo, standing in the middle of the room with his arms cradling his shoulders as he listens to the nurse before him. He’s flanked between two people, the closest Doyoung recognizes as Francesco, the ancient Italian nonno running the butcher counter Doyoung's visited every day since moving to Florence.

Jungwoo spots Doyoung and abruptly ends the conversation to rush up to him, then swallows him into a hug. They embrace, Doyoung’s soggy, wool coat soaking through Jungwoo’s long-sleeved shirt. Doyoung can feel Jungwoo is quaking in his arms, a deep, billowing sadness ready to burst through the seams. Doyoung starts to feel this nervous energy seep into his bones. 

_Was he too late?_

"Doyoung," he says, voice barely a whisper against his ear. He sounds raw, consumed with doubt that scratches at his throat. Jungwoo parts from their hold and brings up a warm hand to smooth the rain from Doyoung’s face. 

Doyoung shakes the rest of it from his hair, pellets of water flying across the room causing Jungwoo to startle. “Sorry,” he offers.

Jungwoo wipes the spray away from his face and blinks his eyes back open. "Thank God you’re here.”

Doyoung peers his gaze around Jungwoo’s squared shoulder and notices the nurse left the room. He spots Mark buried in an oversized red parka, knees huddled against his chest on a chair. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, staring at the wall in front of him with his eyes bugged out and unblinking as he rocks back and forth in his seat. He had only landed in Florence two days ago. Between being in an emergency room and the jet lag, he looks like death warmed over.

Taking a step back, Doyoung scans Jungwoo’s face. He notices the rims of his eyes are red with dried streaks of tears staining his cheeks. The corner of a rumpled tissue sprouts from the pocket of his jeans. 

Jungwoo sounded like he was in hysterics on the phone earlier, voice frantic. Doyoung could hear the film of tears starting to trickle down Jungwoo’s throat as he tried to parse out his words through the speaker. All he could make out between Jungwoo’s sobs were _“Mark”, “bad”, “blood”, “hospital”,_ and _“Johnny.”_

“Is he okay?” Doyoung asks.

He feels his heart hammer against his chest, and suddenly the tips of his fingers start to tremble. _It’s fine_ , he assures himself. Despite not knowing exactly what’s going on, he’s always lived by the notion that everything works out the way it should be. 

But Jungwoo’s eyes look glazed over, blond hair wild and unkempt in every direction. A section near the crown of his head looks shinier than the rest, slicked with oil likely as a result of him twisting the strands for far too long. Doyong is startled to see his shoulders have sloped forward, his usual, elegant posture now warped with worry. 

He rests the weight of his palms on Jungwoo’s shoulders, smooths his hands down the spanse of his arms. They’re tense, heavy like marble.

“No,” he whispers. He sees Jungwoo’s lips starts to quiver. His usual state of brightness has dulled into full gloom and it terrifies Doyoung to see him look so morose. The honesty stabs Doyoung straight in the chest, but there’s no doubt it was even more difficult for Jungwoo to spit it out. “Everything’s terrible,” he adds solemnly.

And with just three words, all of Doyoung’s worst fears come flooding to the forefront of his mind as he starts to digest the severity of the situation. 

Jungwoo came into Doyoung’s life by way of a happy accident. Doyoung signed up for a truffle hunting excursion that ended in a farmhouse in the middle of Umbria. The two of them bonded over the pungent, rich aroma of a 9 course meal, each plate hosting an essence of black and white truffles. Doyoung was sick with indulgence for three days afterward and could hardly bring himself to eating truffles since that day. All he could stomach the week after were fresh vegetables and bone broth.

By the end of the event, Doyoung invited Jungwoo to his kitchen, a quaint restaurant on the ground floor of a pink, three-story building covered in ivy, just on the outskirts of Florence. There Doyoung housed one of the most celebrated eateries in all of Tuscany, which was a huge feat for a foreign chef. He watched Jungwoo’s passion to create delicious, interesting meals unfurl before his eyes. He surprised Doyoung by folding fresh basil and peas into lamb-filled pan-fried mandu, a combination Doyoung had never considered before. It impressed him instantly.

And with that one meal, Doyoung trained Jungwoo to be the best sous chef he has ever had come through his restaurant. And ever since, Jungwoo had been a jovial source of pride, a pillar of ambition for Doyoung to lean on.

But today, and for the first time, they each become a shoulder to cry on.

Jungwoo rests his ear against Doyoung’s chest, right over his heart, and Doyoung feels Jungwoo squeeze around his waist. Doyoung feels his own heart pick up, faster than when he was dodging pedestrians only minutes ago, and his stomach sinks when he feels Jungwoo shiver against him. Doyoung buries his chin in Jungwoo’s hair, palms smoothing up and down the planes of his back. Doyoung can feel his coat shriveling up around his shoulders by the second.

"Woo..." Doyoung starts, voice barely above a whisper. He's afraid to continue, but he licks his lips and squeezes him tighter. "Why is Johnny _here_?"

Johnny was _fine_ when he saw him at the shop last week. He _sounded_ fine when he spoke with him on the phone two nights ago. 

It was a silly, frivolous phone call that could have waited until he came back from his weekend trip to Munich with Jungwoo. But he interrupted Doyoung’s lonely meal of a frozen pizza and half a bottle of white wine to tell him about the little Lebanese restaurant they stumbled upon.

“Their falafels were to die for,” Johnny gushed. “All of the food? Best food I’ve ever had in my mouth in my _life_.”

“But I thought you said my galbi was the best thing you had in your life?”

“Well, I lied!”

Doyoung scoffed.

A silence lulled between them, and all Doyoung could hear was the roar of the streets of Munich whirring behind Johnny: the screech of a violin echoed against the stone walls of the center square, and the clip-clop of stilettos pounding the pavement on their way to a nightclub. Doyoung could almost smell the beer on Johnny’s breath through the speaker.

“Why did you call me?” Doyoung asked, still puzzled by Johnny’s impulsive call. It wasn’t out of character, but he figured having Jungwoo there would have kept his mind in Munich.

Johnny dragged out the pause, then lowered his voice: “I called to tell you that the tabbouleh tasted like watching the sunrise in Sardinia.”

Doyoung let out a flustered exhale and rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand. The recollection of their brief trip to the island a few years ago left Doyoung giddy, punch drunk, but mostly subdued. Suddenly the wine started to get to his head and made him feel sideways.

“I think you should hang up now,” he murmured. He turned to look out his window and noticed how dark the sky was, the occasional window glowing orange against the canvas of black.

He heard Johnny let out a deep, marbled sigh. “I’ll see you on Monday, Doyoung.” 

Johnny cut the line, and Doyoung downed the rest of his wine in one, large, painful gulp. His mind turned over the way Johnny’s voice wavered from excited to tired in an instant.

“As always,” Doyoung said to himself, dripping with a promise.

It was the last time he heard Johnny’s voice.

Jungwoo untangles himself from Doyoung and takes a step back. The whole front of his shirt is stained with Doyoung’s soggy wool water—and Doyoung sees a sharp flash of pain take hold around his face. He tries to stay on his feet, waiting for an answer to slip through Jungwoo's quivering lips.

"He's—he’s been coughing up blood,” Jungwoo stammers. “And they don't know why—" his face pinches into a wince and he throws his hands up to his face.

"What do you mean _they don't know why_?"

"They can't—" Jungwoo’s voice cracks and he slumps against the door to the waiting room.

Doyoung spots Mark snapping out of his daze and he locks eyes with Doyoung across the room. He gives a solemn nod and gets up from his chair to walk over to them. The soles of Mark’s boots thud loudly against the floor. Doyoung is dizzy, brain scrambled with worry and confusion.

"Do you need me to talk to them?" Doyoung asks, the eagerness in his voice clawing upward. He rubs his hand down Jungwoo's arm and feels his chest begin to gurgle with panic. "Could you speak with the doctor? Can I? Can I talk to a doctor?"

"Yes, yes,” Jungwoo snaps, shrugging Doyoung off his shoulder. “I already spoke with a doctor. They just told me to leave the room and that Johnny needs to rest."

“How long ago was that?” Doyoung chews the corner of his lip and leans down to pick up his bag. _It was probably ages ago_ , he considers. They’re probably hooking up an IV for dehydration and finding a room to place him in out of the emergency. "Can’t I go see him now?"

Jungwoo turns away for a moment to cough into his hand. It's only a second, but it's the quietest, longest second Doyoung's felt, stretching onward as Jungwoo appears to be collecting his thoughts. Jungwoo looks like he’s trying to hold back a new wave of tears as he sniffles into the back of his hand.

"Hey," Mark says. His voice sounds scratchy with exhaustion, but still welcoming and warm. He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The hood of his parka is pulled up to shade his face from the muted fluorescent lights of the room. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Doyoung says. As if he'd be anywhere else in the world right now. He had shut down the kitchen tonight to be here, reservations be damned. "How’re you doing?"

Mark runs a hand through this black hair, hood falling back down to his shoulders. There are a few strands of hair that refused to lay flat on the crown of his head. "Didn't think I'd spend any of my vacation in a hospital, but at least I can be here for him."

Jungwoo pats Mark’s shoulder and starts to pull him into a hug.

"I'm so glad I'm here," Mark says. His voice sounds small. "God, what would I do if he didn't have family here?"

Doyoung reaches for Mark’s shoulder. It’s awkward—they’d only met twice before this, briefly, when Mark had passed through Florence on a study abroad trip a year ago, and then two nights ago when he collected Mark from the airport to drop him off at Johnny and Jungwoo’s apartment. Johnny adored his cousin, always spoke so highly of Mark and was pleasant in both encounters, but Doyoung still hardly knew him.

Jungwoo clings to Mark, chin resting on the crown of his head as he presses a gentle, comforting kiss at the top of it. Mark pats at Jungwoo’s forearms that are draping across his shoulders and leans into Jungwoo’s chest. They look like two pillars holding each other up, both entwined in their symbiotic grief. 

Doyoung wants to extend his own comfort and affection between them— _no_ — craves for them to accept it. Nobody has been able to give Doyoung a straight answer since he stepped through the door. He still has no idea what the hell is wrong with Johnny. There was nothing, _nobody_ to burden the anguish simmering in his gut.

“ _Signor Kim_?” a dull voice croaks behind Doyoung. The voice is willowy and sounds like it’s encased in 30 years of smoke.

Doyoung’s heart jolts at the mention of his name and turns to see a short, stout doctor he saw waddling through the waiting room earlier. He reeks of cigarettes and has a stain over the left breast of his grey scrub top.

“Yes!” Doyoung rasps. “ _Sì, signore_.”

The doctor furrows his brows, eyes squinting at Doyoung.“I beg your pardon,” he turns to face Jungwoo, “but it is very important for me to speak with you in _private_.”

Doyoung feels all the blood drain from his face as he watches Mark unlatch himself from Jungwoo. The two of them exchange a silent, subtle nod as Jungwoo twists his hands into the sleeves of his shirt. The doctor ushers Jungwoo out of the waiting area and down the hallway, presumably to Johnny’s room, or the doctor’s office. 

And like that, the light is off, and there are cinder blocks of ancient, glacial ice burrowed at the pit of Doyoung’s stomach. An overwhelming pit of sorrow is ignited.

He is sinking. He is drowning. He is burning.

______________________________________

Doyoung slips his key into the lock of his flat and pushes through the front door. He ushers himself through the threshold, toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly onto the elegant wooden shoe rack before making his way through into the living room.

Each step feels weightier than the last as he drops his bag onto the floor next to a marble side table, then peels off his half-dried coat and tosses it onto the back of a brocade chair. He roams through darkness, guided by the moonlight filtering through the open window. He passes three light switches, body guided by muscle memory to avoid every exposed corner of furniture in his wake. The tinny crackle of a radio blasting " _99 Luftballons_ " floats in from the alley below.

It's 9 o'clock in the evening, and the dinner parties are only just starting to shuffle into the small restaurant across the way from Doyoung's flat. He can smell the pounds of peeled garlic roasting in olive oil wafting into his apartment. It makes his stomach gurgle as soon as he steps into his own kitchen. He wishes he was at his restaurant, grilling up the fresh strips of juicy beef he had been marinating for a mountain of japchae that evening. Instead, it's gone to waste in the fridge. It'll be too sweet for anyone's taste tomorrow.

Ironically, he and Jungwoo prepared a “comfort food" menu for the restaurant tonight. Jungwoo suggested bringing a taste of home to the tables.

Home. A taste of Korea: of sweetness, of bitterness, of warmth. His baseline.

Doyoung pulls open the refrigerator door, light almost blinding him as he scans the shelves. He moves over a carafe of fresh squeezed orange juice and grabs the last bottle of Coke from the back of the fridge. He slams the edge of the cap on the lip of the kitchen counter with ease, a move he's practiced hundreds of times over the years, and lets the cap rattle onto the floor.

Italy's been his home for seven years now. There are days he wonders if his Korean dishes even taste anything like he remembers from home. Has he lost all sense of self?

Doyoung had picked up the beef for the bulgogi that morning from nonno Francesco at the counter. He was eager to catch sight of Johnny somehow, but Francesco took one look at Doyoung’s face and explained that Johnny wasn’t feeling well. The thought rolled around in Doyoung’s mind, and he knew he would have to trade hearing all about Johnny’s recent trip with homemade oxtail soup and a caring smile before his shift at the restaurant.

He takes a long pull of Coke, head tipping back and gagging on the rush of bubbles gurgling up the back of his throat and into his nose. It stings and he fights back at the reflexive tears, slamming the butt of the bottle onto the counter. Its glorious, sticky foam erupts from the mouth of the glass, over the neck, and spilling onto the back of Doyoung's hand. 

Doyoung chokes on a sob.

Having left the hospital with more questions than answers, the thought of Johnny strapped to a hospital bed leaves Doyoung inconsolable.

He looks at the puddle of brown liquid pooled around his wrist and feels the sting from his nose start to prickle behind his eyes.

At least this is a mess he can fix. It's a simple mess he can mop up, throw into the wash, and go about his life.

As for Johnny’s mess, Doyoung has no idea where it begins. And it’s a mess that haunts Doyoung for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Shauna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwinwin/pseuds/pinkwinwin).
> 
> Thank you for striking the match.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/johntographique) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/violetpeche)


End file.
